


Bed of Lies

by Khirsah



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blackwall angst, Body Worship, F/M, Water Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-19 06:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4736159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was so fucking beautiful and kind that each lie of omission was like another strip of flesh torn from too-old bones. Maker, he would die for her. Gladly. Happier than he’d ever lived for anything else. What had she done to him to make him feel so much?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sun beat relentlessly against his heavy mail, heat trapped in layers of leather and metal and flesh. He could feel the sweat winding its way down his brow; when he squinted against the shard-bright glare, beads of it caught in his lashes.

Burned his eyes.

“Maker’s breath,” Blackwall muttered, blinking away the sting and rising unsteadily out of his crouch. A low wind stirred, as if in response, sending a fine mist of grit along the dune and spattering across his jerkin. He was going to be finding sand in the worst places for _weeks_.

…Sera would have something filthy to say about that. He found he was starting to miss the little shit when she wasn’t around.

“Remind me again why I thought this was a good idea?” the Inquisitor said, pausing at his side. She shot him one of her usual smiles, caught somewhere between wry and uncertain and determined and sweet, as if she were carefully feeling her way through unfamiliar steps of a dance. He always wanted to ask whether that uncertainty was a byproduct of being raised in the Circle; he never thought he had the right. “Next time I suggest a trek through the wastes, why don’t you remind me I could be doing literally anything else?”

She pushed back a strand of pale hair, caught out of its usual tight knot by the wind. No good: it slipped free on the next breath, unfurling before her delicate face like a silver banner. “Really,” she laughed. “ _Anything_ else.”

He chuffed a laugh of his own (never could resist at the sound of hers) and moved subtly to block the worst of the wind. If she noticed, she had the grace to pretend she didn’t. “You’re the one giving the orders, m’lady,” Blackwall said. “You could send us back to Skyhold and not a one would raise a voice to stop you.” Truth to be told, he’d be glad of it…and not just because of the sand. Their current objective was minor enough, but the wastes were filled with varghests and wyverns. Worse, each dune crested could bring them face to face with Venatori, and Blackwall wasn’t fool enough to deny that he’d feel more comfortable with a few more swords around.

Just, perhaps, not to any of the others’ faces.

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing over Inara’s shoulder toward the rest of their ragged party. Vivienne looked as cool and collected as ever, but he could read the subtle tells in her expression even at this distance: the faint frown between her brows, the tightness of her jaw, the way her fingers dug into the fine wood of her staff. She was a good deal slower than the rest of them because she refused to let the dunes defeat her; instead of sliding back with the sand before pressing on, accepting that it would take two steps for every one advanced, she deliberately _paused_ before striding forward as if forcing the shifting grit to stay _put_ beneath her fine-soled shoes.

Void. For all he knew, maybe she was doing it, too. Blackwall couldn’t put it past her.

But either way, it was slow going, and they’d spent the last two hours with the senior enchantress little more than a grimly determined fleck on the horizon. Cole, for his part, truly _did_ seem to glide across the sand, but he hung back with Vivienne to keep her company. On the long trek, Blackwall’d caught snatches of the running commentary echoing across the dunes, undercut by the occasional, “My dear, silence is not only a virtue; sometimes, it is a _necessity_.” Inara called for a rest now and again, or diverted to collect materials to allow the rest of their party to catch up, but even now Cole and Vivienne were too far for comfort. It’d take precious time for either of them to catch up if push came to shove.

If Cassandra were here, or even the Bull, he would breathe easier. They understood the need to _protect_. Maker’s balls, he’d take Varric and Bianca while he was spinning wishes out of the sky. The more steel between danger and the Inquisitor, the better he would breathe. 

A soft hand fell on his arm and Blackwall straightened, startled and instantly on high alert. Inara had turned to face him, eyes scanning his as if his features were points in one of those astrariums she took so much delight in piecing together. As if all she has to do was connect the dots and the puzzle would come clear, meaning true.

He hoped not. _Maker_ , he hoped not.

“What troubles you, Blackwall?” she murmured. Her hand stayed where it was; he could feel it through layers of leather and mail.

He could feel _her_. _Maker take my damaged hide._ “No troubles to speak of, m’lady.”

“You were scowling back at Vivienne fairly intently.”

Blackwall made a quick, sharp shushing motion, saying, “I would never dream of scowling at _Madame de Fer_ ,” with an exaggerated glance back toward the two. He had to bite the inside of his mouth to swallow a pleased grin at Inara’s laugh. Maker, that sound could send him into the void and he’d go gladly. “And don’t you be forgetting it.”

Inara quirked a brow, grin still spread across her face. Dressed in worn leathers, hair a bedraggled mess, sand dotting her skin and red clay from the flats she’d been mucking about in earlier smudging her brow, she looked as beautiful as stained glass. Andraste shining gold and _fuck_ , he had it something terrible. “She’s quite some distance back, Blackwall. She can’t _hear_ you.”

“So says _you_. But _you’re_ not the one she’ll be pinning to the wall with those cold eyes of hers.” He effected a shiver, just to hear that laugh again. In the end, he couldn’t help laughing with her. “Why did you pick this particular party, m’lady?” Blackwall added after another beat. “Two mages, Cole, and me…it isn’t much like you to go so unbalanced.”

She glanced back again—Vivienne and Cole were closer, but still not caught up—then tilted her head toward a sliver of shade created by an ancient jut of rock. Blackwall reached out to grasp it first, giving it a shove. When it didn’t budge in the sand, he followed her down into an easy, if sweaty, sprawl. And if he was angled to keep more of the sun off all that fair skin? Well…she couldn’t _prove_ anything.

Inana didn’t seem in the mood to argue over something so small, anyway. She sprawled back with a low sigh, staff rolling forgotten at her side. There was a faint dusting of freckles beginning on the bridge of her nose and the smooth expanse of her cheeks. Or was it just flecks of golden sand? He refused to let himself reach out to see.

“We had a disagreement,” Inara said quietly. She looked down, lashes a dark smudge against her cheeks, as if ashamed of the admission. “And I wanted to apologize to her by bringing her with me.” She looked up, a flash of a dimple there and gone again on one smooth cheek. “Some apology this is, though. I have a feeling Vivienne would have preferred something a little less sweaty.”

“Books,” he said, voice unaccountably gruff. “Smelling of dust and age.”

“Aye,” Inara said. “I suppose you’re right. Instead…this.” She gestured wide.

“This,” he said slowly, “is gift enough for anyone.” _It is, after all, by your side._ But no, it’d be madness to confess that. He was old and addled, and she was so… So…

He cleared his throat; Inara dropped her gaze, cheeks flaming pink, as if she could hear the words he never dared say. The seconds marched on, uncontested. Gradually, almost absently, her fingers began threading through the sand. Blackwall watched her under the guise of checking his weapons—the way she dug her hand deep, loose golden streams falling between her fingers to float away on the light breeze, glittering grit collecting at her knuckles. She had the hands of a lady, still. The sight of those slender fingers made him want to do stupid, impossible things, like turn her hand over and kiss the palm. Run his tongue along the thunder of her pulse. Bite the bend of her elbow.

Push her down until silver-pale hair fanned across the shifting dunes and slide his work-rough fingers inside the silken grasp of her body. _Maker._

“What was the, ah, disagreement about, m’lady?” he grumbled, sounding gruffer than he intended. The phantom sound of her hitching breaths was eroding his common sense. He needed to focus. “This time, that is?”

She sighed and thunked her head back against the rock. “Oh, the same as usual. The Circle. Mages. Magic serving man and… And whether mages should be free. You never really said,” Inara added, turning her head to look at him. “What do you think of all of it?”

“I may be a simple Warden,” Blackwall pointed out, “but I’m seasoned enough to know a trap when I see one. I have no wish to fight with you.”

“I’m not— I wouldn’t—” Inara began, straightening. Then she sighed and dusted her hands off on her thighs; her pale brows were drawn together as she stared down at her feet. “No, I suppose you’re right. I’m only looking to move from one argument to the next. It isn’t that I don’t respect your opinions,” she added, glancing up through her lashes. The look was so sweetly earnest he could feel his heart constrict in response. “It’s only that… I just…”

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “It means a great deal to you,” he said simply.

“It means the _world_ to me,” Inara countered. “The days I used to sit alone in that tower, watching the world spin on below me and knowing I would _never_ be a part of it… I used to feel so trapped. I used to wish I could…” She bit her bottom lip.

_Maker damn a world that’d keep someone like you penned like some animal._

The thought was sudden and vicious. Near-painful in its intensity. Blackwall could feel the spike of battle-rage at that image of Inara—ghost-pale from lack of sunlight, trapped like a sparrow beating its breast against the bars of its cage, taunted by the freedom that could never be hers—taking shape behind his eyes. He hated himself, suddenly, for never pausing to consider mages locked in their tower. He hated himself for never thinking of how this remarkable woman must feel every day she woke free to sweep across the land like the wind.

Maker’s balls, no wonder she was so obsessed with sleeping beneath the stars.

“You’re never going back there, m’lady,” Blackwall said gruffly, eyes fixed on the horizon. Vivienne and Cole were finally nearing, twin shapes drawing closer with each minute that whispered past. “I’d fight anyone who tried to make you.” To the bloody end.

It was a confession of love of sorts, said in his own simple way. A courtly vow made by a man who wore another’s honor like a shield. And yet Maker take him if he didn’t mean every word. He would rip all of Thedas apart to keep this woman safe. _Free._

Blackwall stiffened at the feel of her hand on his arm, and damned if his heart wasn’t racing in his chest. He wanted to close his fingers over hers. He wanted to cup her pointed chin and _kiss her_ slow and deep and hot, so she could taste the vow fervent on his tongue.

He wanted, he wanted, he wanted so much.

And he stayed perfectly still, gaze deliberately turned away. Andraste only knew what foolishness he’d give himself over to if he met those blue eyes now. “You don’t have to do that, Blackwall,” Inara murmured.

Blackwall swallowed, then forced himself to stand. His long shadow cast the Inquisitor in shades of grey. “I know,” he said, hand on his hilt. He could hear Cole’s voice now, high and bright as it floated over the vast dunes. “Don’t mean I won’t anyway. Inquisitor,” he added, tipping his head in something reminiscent of a courtly bow before moving to intercept the rest of their party.

He could feel her eyes on him as he walked away, making the skin shiver along his spine. Then he heard her soft sigh and the tred of her soft leather-soled feet behind him.

“Ho there,” Blackwall called to Vivienne and Cole, lifting one hand. The slowly descending sun caught off a jewel at Vivienne’s throat, winking slyly back at him. “The next ridge should bring us back to the canyons. Just a couple more miles, and we’ll reach oasis camp.”

“So soon?” Vivienne said with arch dryness, taking a careful step, then another. She offered Blackwall a cool smile when he held out his hand to help her over a jutting rock. “But we were only just finding our stride.”

“You hate the desert,” Cole said, blinking owlishly. “It refuses to stay put beneath your feet, like any reasonable land should. And all he can think about is running out of water, food, stumbling dry and desperate through the heat with no hope, no way to protect her.”

Blackwall refused to look at Inara as all four of them fell into step together, though he could feel the heat creeping up his cheeks anyway. “Err, right,” he said. He tried to throw up mental walls—like erecting shields around himself—but he knew it was already too late. His heart was too raw to hide behind a false front, the churning emotion Inara stirred in him (stronger and stronger as each day passed; some day it would be so strong it would burn him alive) too complex. He could only trust that Cole would hold his tongue.

Which was naturally Cole’s cue to reach into his chest and _pull._

“He forgets, sometimes, she’s made of steel,” Cole said wistfully, glancing between Blackwall and Inara. “Wants to forget, because it feels better inside when he protects her; guarding like a wall, even against himself. Stone, cool against her back, hair spread around him as he drives into her heat. He’s lost in it, in her, but this is wrong, wrong, wrong. His hands are rough and her skin is silk. The callouses will catch, rend tears in the delicate fabric; he can’t hurt her, he won’t, his _lady_ —but he wants to make her cry out, too, wants to shake some of that gold from her skin and remind her there’s a real woman hidden there within the idol they all worship.”

Cole blinked and cocked his head at him. “But she already knows that, even when you forget.”

“My dear, what did we say about dipping into the hearts of your friends?” Vivienne interrupted the stunned silence coolly. She shook out the skirts of her robes, sending fine cascades of sand from the heavy velvet and tooled leather. “We are not your fingerpaints to play with, hmm?”

“But I was only—” Cole began. At Vivienne’s low noise, he looked between Blackwall and Inara; no, Maker, _the Inquisitor_. It didn’t do to think of her on familiar terms when well-meaning spirits were traipsing about ready to pluck the wishes from his mind at a whim. “Oh. That did not help. You’re upset with me.”

_Balls._

“Come on, then, lad,” Blackwall said, adjusting his sword and hefting his shield squarely onto his back. He clapped the boy on the shoulder, broad palm spreading across bird-sharp shoulder blades as he firmly led him away. “No harm done, but we’ll be smarting later unless we chase the sun to the valley and back to camp.”

Cole trotted lightly to keep up, leaving Inara to keep Vivienne company. The boy twisted his head around once to look at them as he and Blackwall headed down the face of the far dune, getting further and further ahead. “You want to race away because you’re embarrassed she doesn’t like to hear your thoughts,” he mused. “But you don’t want to leave her side. Please.” Cole caught Blackwall’s arm, eyes beseeching. “She doesn’t want you to leave it either.”

Blackwall closed his eyes and let out a heavy breath. He felt… He didn’t have the words to describe what he felt. “I know, damn it,” he said gruffly. “I know all that.”

“But.” Cole’s frown grew. “If you know…then why do you keep away? You shouldn’t. You make her feel _real_.”

He wouldn’t turn back to look at the Inquisitor. He couldn’t let himself. But he could _imagine_ her walking some paces back—at the crest of the last dune, framed by fire from the setting sun. Red and gold and pink and lavender haloed about the pale silk of her hair, the soft curve of her cheeks, the graceful line of her body and those eyes…lifting at the rough weight of his _need_ , meeting his gaze. Stealing the air from his lungs.

So fucking _beautiful_ and kind that each lie of omission he made was like another strip of flesh torn from too-old bones. Maker, he would die for her. Gladly. Happier than he’d ever lived for anything else. What had she done to him to make him feel so much?

“Blackwall?” Cole whispered, a thread of alarm wending through his voice.

Blackwall closed his eyes and sucked in a steadying breath, then squeezed the boy’s shoulder. _Stop scaring the kid,_ he told himself fiercely, locking his eyes on the far horizon. There were miles to go before they could rest. “Isn’t for me to make her feel anything,” he said with gruff finality, then let his hand drop. “Come on, lad—the faster we go, the sooner we’ll have food in our bellies.”

“But,” Cole began, trying to catch his arm.

“ _No_.” The word was a whip-crack, but he softened it immediately with a crooked smile. The kid couldn’t help it. He was what he was. They all were. “How about this, aye: I’ll teach you that song Sera’s been humming all about the place instead. That sound good to you?”

The spirit tipped his head, blond hair falling across his eyes. “Varric said the lyrics were filthy,” he mused.

“Varric would know, wouldn’t he? Want to learn them anyway?”

Cole was already grinning, crooked and sweet. He bumped their shoulders together happily. “Okay,” he said. Then, “I like the way you talk.”

“Yeah, well,” Blackwall said, pleased despite himself. The simple acceptance of someone like Cole—someone who _knew_ , who had to know even if neither of them had ever said the words—was better than anything. Was nearly as good as the feel of the Inquisitor’s small hand on his arm, the warm scent of sugared violets that rose from the graceful fall of her hair. “I suppose I could say the same.”

“Even if I treat you like fingerpaints?” Cole frowned. “I don’t mean to. You just want her so much. I can’t help it.”

He scratched his beard, losing the fight not to look over his shoulder. Inara looked up at the same moment in some cruel twist of fate, lips parted on whatever she had been saying to Vivienne, and the sight of her—silver-pale against the fiery sunset, fierce, strong, _free_ —nearly shattered his heart in his chest. _Andraste_ take him, it hurt. It hurt so much sometimes, to watch her burning bright enough to beat back the darkness even in his own heart, and yet not be hers.

_I love you. I will always fucking love you._

“Blackwall,” Cole whispered.

“We move on,” Blackwall said, wrenching his gaze away and forcing his strides to lengthen. He couldn’t look back again. If he did—if he dared—he’d be lost in her.

He’d be lost and never again want to be free.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incredible chapter art by http://ineffablerhyme.tumblr.com. Please go check out their tumblr and share the love!

The night was as cold as the day had been hot.

“ _Balls_ ,” Blackwall muttered, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them fitfully. He was finishing up his scan of the perimeter, checking along the high cliffs to make sure the Inquisition men were in place guarding the camp. The oasis was calm—at least, it was calm now that Inara had scoured it clean—but that didn’t mean there weren’t dangers in the night. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would be safe curled up asleep in her tent.

That she would wake each morning with as full a night’s rest as he could manage to dredge from this bloody land.

He paused on his way down from the highest lookout, chuffing his hands together again and gazing out across the wastes. They hung huge and wide open before him—beautiful in shades of indigo and silver, so desolate it was easy to forget the dangers that lay in wait.

But it was all too easy to remember the last time he had been in a Maker-forsaken place like this. No matter how hard he tried to forget these things, they always came crawling back to nestle in the grooves of his thoughts, just waiting for an unwary moment. _Void_. There was something haunting about the emptiness of a desert night, and make no mistake.

Blackwall turned away, scowling down at his feet, and did his best to shove away the memories—to deny them as easily as he denied his old life.

Instead, he focused his attention on the here and now. A low wind blew from the east, stirring grit along the pale dunes. Far below, in the camp, sparks rose from the central fire in a dance; smoke twisted up toward him in delicate coils. There was a laugh—Inara?—and the soft murmur of voices. The scent of roasting meat.

More than he deserved, mayhaps, but he let his feet carry him back there nonetheless. He craved the warmth of the fire and the simple luxury of company. Maybe Vivienne would sing one of those fancy ballads she was always going on about. Maybe Inara would sit by his side as they listened. Maybe he’d be able to brush her shoulder with his in any fool excuse he could find to touch her.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

“Ho there,” Blackwall called as he dropped down the last rocky slope and headed into the outskirts of camp. The guard nodded back before turning her gaze toward the horizon, and Blackwall wound his way through a thicket of tents toward the fire, hungry for company. For her.

Always for her, and wasn’t it a sad state he was in that he could hate himself for that weakness even as he sought her out again and again?

“There room for an old soldier?” he said, stepping past the last tent and into the soft glow of firelight. His gaze swept the gathered logs and rocks, heart giving a ridiculous little lurch when he realized she wasn’t there.

He paused, frowning. Suddenly, the promise of company didn’t seem quite so appealing.

“There is plenty of room for one who sits downwind,” Vivienne said with an exaggerated sniff; she barely even glanced at him.

“You’ve been spending time with Dorian again,” _damn both your hides_ , he didn’t add. He shuffled to a spot out of the way anyway, unwilling to make a fight of it. Vivienne could be unflinchingly kind when she chose, but she could be just as vicious when the mood took her. Like one of those pampered court cats, all velvety purrs and sharp claws ready to snag the unwary. He preferred to prod her only when Sera was about to help him deflect her icy glare. Maybe snigger about her fine airs behind her back while they were at it.

Shit. Sera would’ve been good company tonight. She’d belch a song at him and get him right out of his own bloody head. But Vivienne just smiled, tight-lipped and controlled, and Cole tilted his head to watch him with too-curious eyes—there’d be no relaxing with either of them around.

He did his best anyway, pulling out his flask and taking a pull, watching as the sparks danced up toward the endless blanket of stars. The soft crackle of those flames underscored just how quiet camp had become—where _was_ Inara, anyway?—and made him shift uneasily. He never could seem to help but feel awkward when the Inquisitor wasn’t about. It was as if every cell in his body was straining for her, restless and irritable and incomplete.

Not that he’d ever dream of presuming someone as fine as Inara Trevelyan could _complete_ him. Not that he’d ever want to dirty up her shining skin and silky waterfall of hair—his hands big and rough against the delicate curve of her rump, the span on her waist, the intimate folds of her sex as he thrust his fingers deep deep deep inside, riding out the twisting hitch of her thighs and dragging his palm hard against the nub of her clit—

Blackwall shot an idle glance toward the other side of the fire and nearly choked, sputtering on a mouthful of good whiskey, when he realized they were both staring at him.

As if _waiting_ for something. Maker, he hoped it wasn’t because they could read his filthy thoughts.

But no, there was no disdain in Vivienne’s look; no crow-like curiosity in Cole’s. Blackwall dragged his palm over his beard, wracking his brain. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure what the blazes those expectant looks were supposed to mean. Finally, he just cleared his throat and took a shot in the dark.

“Fine night,” he offered by way of chit-chat.

“Mm,” Vivienne responded.

Cole said nothing. Neither looked away.

“Bit cold though,” Blackwall said.

“Mm,” Vivienne responded.

Cole said nothing. Neither looked away.

“Yes. Cold. Cold as _balls_ ,” he added, narrowing his eyes. He figured Vivienne at least would respond to that, but she just sniffed again, as if he really did reek of some unspeakable musk, and Cole’s eyes went wide and earnest. Like he was trying to communicate by blinks alone.

Blackwall capped his flask and tucked it back into his belt, then crossed his arms and stared _back_ , waiting them out. He was too damn old to play games. “Yep,” he said, voice rough with annoyance. “Cold. As. Balls.”

“My dear,” Vivienne finally said, sitting back with a look of distaste, “I saw a perfectly lovely waterfall some ways back, flowing into a delightful pool. Perhaps you might make use of it.”

“I _do not_ ,” Blackwall said grimly, sitting forward, “have an odor, no matter what you and that insufferable _ponce_ —”

She waved off his words as if they were little more than smoke. “Be that as it may,” she said. “It seems a waste not to take full advantage of what comforts we can find this far out in the wilderness. The Inquisitor already enjoyed the natural baths. She’s in her tent now,” Vivienne added before Blackwall could say anything more.

Not that he could say anything at _all_ thanks to the image Vivienne had just planted in his brain. Inara bare and gleaming in the moonlight, drops of water wending their way down her body as the waterfall foamed about her hips, only just hiding the pale thatch of her—

Blackwall cleared his throat loudly at Cole’s soft noise and very carefully thought of battle. Just…swords everywhere, and blood, and not a single naked Inquisitor in sight.

“But,” Cole said, looking at Vivienne.

Vivienne smiled. “You can wait your turn,” she said. “Some of us are in more need than others. Is that not right, Blackwall?”

 _So_ many battles. So many swords. Clanging metal and roaring cries and wounds. Gaping wounds. Bloody, gaping, sword-inflicted wounds. “Ah, yes. Right.”

“But she’s,” Cole tried again.

Blackwall stood. Whatever Cole had managed to pluck from his mind about the Inquisitor—about exactly what he’d been thinking of the Inquisitor, flushed beneath his beard and shame-faced and just a little hard—he did not want to hear it. “On second thought,” he said, “no point missing scrubbing myself clean when an opportunity presents itself. No telling when we’ll get another chance, aye?”

“Good man,” Vivienne murmured, lacing her fingers about one knee and leaning back. All purring smiles again and not a single claw in sight.

There was just no figuring her, Blackwall decided as he headed off to his tent to grab a length of cloth to use as his towel. He snagged a clean shirt and trousers too while he was at it, figuring he could wash what he wore and leave it out to dry in the morning swelter. As pointed and rude as Vivienne’s comment had been, Blackwall had to admit one thing—staggering around in the heat of the desert, strapped in armor and brandishing his sword and shield to protect his lady at all costs, he was sure to get a bit ripe.

 _More than a bit_ , he mentally added with a wry grin, sniffing at his shirts to check which was the cleanest. He ended up snagging them all, tumbling them and other bits of clothes from his bag and folding them up in the towel. He hoisted the pile over his shoulder and headed away from camp toward the oasis pools, letting the sound of the waterfall lead the way.

The heat of the fire (as well as his own thoughts) had warmed him somewhat, but as he moved away from camp, the cool silver-blue of the desert night claimed him once more. Blackwall huffed a breath and clambered over a stand of rocks, armor creaking as he cleared them. His sword smacked against a straggly bush and he gave an annoyed grunt, shifting his hold on the makeshift satchel to grab the hilt and maneuver it out of the way.

He could go farther, he figured—maybe all the way to the waterfall itself—but this bend of water was private enough for his needs. Blackwall dropped the satchel to the rocks and immediately began stripping down his armor. The pieces went quickly, methodically. He’d been on his own for so long that it was second nature, his fingers moving over the buckles and grooves with the dexterity of long practice. He set the pieces aside one by one, shaking them for a fine fall of sand. There were golden grains tucked along the folds of his tunic, he realized; when he pulled off his greaves, they fell about him in a quiet rain.

“In every bloody damn thing,” Blackwall muttered. He untied the leather cord holding the laces of his shirt closed around his throat, tugging it free with a soft _swwft_. His hair was a fine mess, blown this way and that by the wind. Shaking it back, Blackwall gathered the mass between his fingers and twisted the salt-and-pepper strands into a messy bun at the back of his head—holding it in place with one hand while he tied it off with the leather cord with the other.

Dorian would shit six bricks to see him now, but it felt good off his neck—and besides, no better way to keep the whole mane from getting wet.

Blackwall tipped his head back, watching the open sky as he grabbed the hem of his shirt and ripped it off, balling it up in one hand to brush bits of sand off his chest. They clung to his dark chest hair, golden grit glistening in the springy black-and-silver. He tensed his stomach muscles against the ticklish drag, then sighed and tossed the shirt aside.

No good. He’d be tracking sand all the way back to his loft above the stables, see if he didn’t.

He roughly unfastened his trousers, kicking boots and socks aside before stepping out of the pooling leathers and smalls. The night air felt a touch too cool against bare skin, but he stood and drank it in a moment anyway, letting his lungs fill with the sweet scent before he was stepping into the water.

Blackwall expected it to be frigid; he was braced to hiss and curse against it. But it felt inexplicably warm against his calves as he waded in, lapping against his skin with a pleasant sort of heat that was neither too hot nor too cold. _Refreshing_. He squinted down, frowning, and noted the way steam rose from its surface, especially around the bend toward where the waterfall was hidden from view.

A hot spring?

What were the odds it was natural?

Frowning, mind full of Venatori tricks, Blackwall began to wade toward the rocky outcropping—then hesitated and swung back around, reaching to snag his sword from his pile of discarded armor. He slid the blade free, twisting it expertly in his hands so it wouldn’t catch the moonlight and give him away. The pool was well within the safe perimeter set by the Inquisition, but he hadn’t survived as long as he had by being careless.

Then, guard up, he moved toward the waterfall, just out of sight. The water grew warmer and warmer as he rounded the bend, though never quite _hot_. He drew in a breath, searching for a tell-tale sulfuric stench, but there was nothing. Just the clean scent of water, the greenery clinging to the shore, and the strange _cold_ smell he always associated with the desert at night. Overhead, the sky was an endless blanket of stars; they were reflected back by the pool, refracted light rippling with each step he took until he felt almost as if he were wading out into the heavens themselves.

The fanciful notion had his lips tucking up into a wry grin, and Blackwall shook his head as he finally edged around the huge rocky outcropping and spotted the waterfall for the first time…

…where the sight of it—the sight of _her_ —stole his breath on a ragged gasp.

Water poured over the lip of the falls in a silver froth, bright enough it almost seemed to glow against the bruised-indigo night. It crashed a short distance to the pool, scattering in a cascade of droplets when it hit the flat rocks just below. It was a beautiful sight, fierce, silver-pale against midnight, and alone it may have been enough to have his reluctantly romantic heart beating faster.

But then—

Maker, _then_ —

There was the Inquisitor, Inara, his _lady_ standing within the swirling silver pool, head tipped up as the rushing water crashed over her. Her loosened hair was so pale it seemed to blend, to meld with the torrent, as if she’d been created by nothing more than foam and the distant echo of stars. Her eyes were closed, lashes a dark smudge against her cheeks.

She was naked. Standing in profile, arms lifting to push back that fall of hair, breasts rising with the motion and oh, oh _Maker_ , he shouldn’t be seeing this.

Blackwall swallowed back a strangled noise, one hand fumbling blindly for purchase against the rock, the other tightening around the hilt of his sword lest he let it drop in the shallows. His heart was racing and he felt like Andraste must have, looking up to see the face of the Maker for the first time. She was just so _beautiful_. Pink nipples tight against the cool night air, curve of her thigh and arch of her neck as delicate as Orlesian marble. Lips parting as she drew in a breath, and Blackwall swore he would turn to stone himself if he didn’t look away.

 _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say, even as his forced his gaze down. _This wasn’t for me to witness._

Because now, how would he ever close his eyes and _not_ see her shining there?

Impossible. _Painful_. Void take his damned hide. Swallowing, heart thrumming too-fast in his chest, Blackwall began to turn away. But before he could take more than a step, a soft voice called over the crash of the falls:

“How can you look at me the way you do and yet still always seem to be walking away?”

He froze.

There was a soft splash, barely audible over the sound of the falls, and his entire body was a clenched fist. He was… Maker, he was trembling, hyper-aware. His stomach twisted into knots as his fingers tightened about his sword—as if that would somehow be enough to protect him from his own impossible temptation. His breath was coming in harsh bursts, and he was grateful the water rose to his waist here. Otherwise…

Well. Otherwise, it would be impossible to hide the extent of his interest. It would be impossible for Inara to look at him and not _know_.

There was another soft splash, much closer, and Blackwall felt a gentle wave break against his back. He took another step, stumbling a little, and staggered against the rock. The steel of his blade clanged against it, and he was ashamed to realize his legs were actually trembling in the face of how much he _wanted her_.

The sight of Inara bare, gleaming in moonlight, perfect, would stay with him until the day he died.

And then a small palm pressed between his shoulder blades, the water swirling around his waist, and her touch sent shockwaves through him. Ah, _Maker_.

“M’lady,” he murmured, voice gruff.

“Please look at me, Blackwall.” Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear it, sweet and soft, yet not weak. Never, never that. He bit the inside of his mouth, trying to marshal all the arguments that had kept him from her side thus far—but they all left him on a gusting breath when she slid her fingers down down down the knobs of his spine, tracing a delicate path that had his blood heating and cock firming. “Blackwall,” she said again; her own voice was going husky. “Why do you never want to look at me?”

He swallowed hard. “It isn’t that,” he said. The strain was evident in his voice. His stomach was clenched tight, and he swore he’d never been so hard in his life. Her other hand was on him now, palms stroking bold-yet-shy along the bunching muscles of his back. In his mind’s eye, he saw the two of them standing there—him rough and common, her delicate as spun silk, the soft mounds of her breasts rising and falling with each hitching breath he couldn’t help but hear.

He wished dizzily that she would push forward. That she would press against his back, arms around his middle, so he could feel the tight points of her nipples drag against his skin.

“What is it?” Inara murmured.

“I _can’t_.” There were so many reasons he couldn’t give in to what they both wanted. There were so many _lies_ stacked between them. He could fight his entire life, and he would still not be near good enough for her. “You…” He took a serrated breath, then added in a burst of honesty, “Void take my hide, you deserve better than what this old man can give you.”

Inara was silent for a long, long time. He didn’t dare turn to look at her, but he couldn’t pull away either. She had him trapped by the lightest of touches, yearning for her and shrinking away. _Coward, coward, coward_. If he was truly brave, he would pull away for good and not linger at her heels like a dog begging for scraps.

But he wasn’t brave, he wasn’t strong, and he could no more leave her than he could reach out and claim her.

Finally, Inara let out a breath and dropped her hands. His skin felt cold in the absence, and Blackwall nodded, telling himself all the usual affirmations: it was better this way. This was how it had to be.

Water swirled about his hips as she began to move away from him, and he dropped his head, eyes closing…only to snap back open in shock when those delicate, capable hands slid up his lightly furred belly and chest to grip muscular shoulders. Blackwall stared down at Inara—there, standing in front of him, gleaming like a beacon in the darkness and boldly pressing close. _Closer_ as she let the water take her, let their bodies brush, and the shock of heat that lanced through his body at the first drag of naked skin against naked skin drove the breath clean out of him.

He reached for her on instinct, one hand grasping her hip, the other hovering uselessly, sword still gripped tight. His breaths came in harsh lunges, and—ah, Maker—he was hard as stone against the curve of her hip. No hiding it, no pretending he wasn’t affected down to his core. Her lips parted on a low gasp as she arched closer, and the drag of her breasts against his chest was enough to make him groan.

“M’lady,” Blackwall murmured, helpless. She had him ensnared; shaking, shuddering, needful. Maker, but he wanted her.

Inara bit her bottom lip, looking up at him with all-too-serious eyes. There was a flush high on her cheeks, but she held her ground—and then, very deliberately, undulated her hips, dragging her belly along the jut of his cock. “I believe,” Inara murmured breathlessly, “I can be the judge of what I _deserve_.”

Blackwall held strong for a moment longer…then cursed, practically flinging his sword aside. It clattered on the rocks, quickly forgotten as he grabbed her hips and lifted her, pivoting, pressing her back against the cool stone. She gasped, eyes going wide, but then her legs were wrapping around his waist as he drove her back and she was pressing eagerly into his desperate kiss. It was a wild thing, hot and _hungry_ , her teeth dragging along his lower lip before he stroked his tongue deep into her mouth, claiming her, kiss spiraling out of control as he fed off her hitching moans.

He should pull back. He should apologize. He should keep space between them and never, never let this happen again.

But void take him, he was a weak man, and even if there was a wall of lies between them, he could no longer turn away when Inara reached for him. Honorable or not, chivalrous or not, decent or not, he was going to let himself have this—he was going to _take_ what the Inquisitor was offering and damn the consequences.

Damn everything.


	3. Chapter 3

Blackwall grabbed a handful of her silken hair and pulled her head back as he deepened the kiss, going messy and demanding. Wild. He felt fucking _wild_ , as if this crazy desire had been a barely tamed beast held chained by nothing but self-hatred and guilt, released for the first time. When he drove forward—drove her back against cold stone—it was with a growl that echoed deep in his chest.

 _Stop this_ , he thought, even as his hips hitched against hers, his chest dragged across her impossibly soft breasts. He needed to pull back, to be gentle, to— To _control himself_ and—

“Blackwall,” Inara gasped against his mouth, against the wild thrust of his tongue. Her nimble fingers slid into his hair, dragging it free with a sharp rake of her nails, pulling another guttural groan from him. It spilled from his body and into hers—fed into her eager mouth as she bit at his lips, his tongue, just as feverish as he felt. As if she were even a quarter as desperate for him as he was for her, heels digging into the small of his back, arching and _writhing_ like a wild thing.

He grunted and yanked her head back, snapping his teeth against the delicate line of her jaw before following it down down down to the thrum of her pulse with just the barest tip of his tongue. That silver hair was falling around him in its own waterfall and he could _feel_ the slick heat of her cunt dragging against his stomach with each buck of her body against his—rubbing herself against the salt-and-pepper hair as if she might die without the feel of him.

“M’lady,” Blackwall growled into the shell of Inara’s ear; she turned her face, grabbing at his beard and pulling him in for a _slickhotwetfuck_ tangle of tongues and shattered breaths, soft flesh straining against the scarred and battle-hardened muscles of his body.

 _Maker_ , but it was a wonder steam wasn’t rising from where their skin met—slick and _hot_ and dragging against each other in a maddeningly common way.

He was doing this wrong. He was doing this _all wrong,_ and damn him anyway for fumbling against her delicate skin like a wild beast when he should be worshipping at her fucking altar. Blackwall wasn’t a man of the world for nothing—he’d seen his share of fine ladies, and Inara was the finest of them all. A woman like this should be taken against the softest silk sheets beneath a painted canopy. She should be given wine and fancy Orlesian sweets and romanced with…with bloody _songs_ , not calloused fingers plucking at her tight pink nipples as a rough mouth sucked bruises across her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, hips pushing forward, meeting the heedless rut of her body blindly. He needed to stop, he wanted to stop, he _could not_ stop; not when she felt like this against him. Not when he’d been starving for her for so long. “Inara, m’lady, I’m _sorry_.”

Inara grabbed a handful of his hair and _pulled_ , yanking his head back so she could bite the furred curve of his jaw up to his earlobe. The sharp clench of her teeth rocketed through him harder than a thousand spells, and when he cupped her breasts and closed his eyes into the pleasure-pain, he thought _this_ must be what going mad felt like. “Stop that,” she said, her own sweet voice very near a growl. Inara arched her back, thrusting her breasts against the rasp of his palms, heels scrabbling against the curve of his ass as she fought not to slide down into the water again. “Stop thinking you’re _taking_ something I’m not freely giving.”

He sucked in a pained breath and turned blindly toward her again, seeking her mouth, but Inara wasn’t done. She held him tight, thighs clenching around his waist as she sucked her own bruise in the hollow just below his ear—marking him as indelibly as this whole desperate clash of need was marking him, changing something deep inside his body as if her powers were a transmutation rather than conflagration.

 _Fuck_ , his head was a jumbled mess tonight; his hands actually trembled when they slid down to settle on her hips.

“I love you,” Blackwall said against the soft skin of her shoulder. The words were muffled enough—shushed beneath the nearby waterfall—that he wasn’t sure she heard. But she could _feel_ them in each hot puff of breath, Inara shuddering and arching up in blatant welcome. “I love every fucking inch of you.”

“I want you to, to take me,” she said, tugging at his hair again. The gesture was gentler now, less pointedly aggressive. When he looked up, meeting her eyes, there was a softness there that could easily be his undoing.

No, who was he fooling? He was already long undone by this woman. She’d unraveled him with her kindness and her strength and her grit; all that remained to be seen was whether she would choose to weave him back together again—and if so, what shape she would give him.

He was hers. Down to his core, he was _hers_. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Inara,” Blackwall said. He was so very _aware_ of the picture they made now. The water rushing around his upper thighs, his cock trapped between their bodies. Those pale pale legs wrapped about his hips and her stomach pressed against the clench of his stomach, her tight nipples rasping over his chest every time they sucked in breath. She was pale as moonlight against the deep grey boulder, trapped between his bulk and its rough surface and yet—

Yet—

Yet ruling over it all, eyes and tumble of hair and smile the brightest points in the whole damned galaxy. When she raised her palm to stroke his cheek, green light flickered between them in punctuation to a question he never dared ask.

_Can you love a man like me?_

_Yes_ , the soft carding of her fingers seemed to say. _If you would only hold still long enough to allow it_.

“Inara,” he breathed again, shocked-still by the weight of the moment. But then she was tipping her head forward and catching his mouth in another long kiss—sipping from him almost delicately, lips and teeth and tongue moving moving moving against his own in little flicks and nips.

Blackwall groaned, hands sliding up again to cup those perfect tits even as he gave himself to Inara’s kiss. He dragged his thumbs around the tight tips over and over again before flicking them gently, then harder, _harder_ at her breathy moan.

The feel of her, the smell, the weight, was overwhelming, and he if he dared break her kiss, he would lean down and capture the peak between his teeth—he would _suck_ as much as he could manage into his mouth and swirl his tongue over and over against her as—

_Fuck._

Blackwall gasped into Inara’s mouth at the sudden shocking _heat_ brushing against the head of his cock. He slammed a fist against hard stone, lurching, desperate to find his balance as as as fuck, oh _fuck_ , she shifted her hips again and took his cock carelessly deeper against her body.

“What are you,” he began, only to swallow his own words—his _tongue_ —when his pure shining noble _lady_ leaned back against the boulder and _rolled her hips_ , teasing him deeper and deeper along the silken sheath of her. “ _Fuck_ , Inara.”

“I want to feel you inside me,” she said. Inara’s voice was thick and nearly as wrecked as his; her breath came in harsh pants. There was a flash of defiance in her eyes, as well as a twinge of anxiety, as if she was afraid she had overstepped. “I… If you want me, that is.”

“ _If I want her_ , she says,” Blackwall managed. He cupped her face—her beautiful face—in one rough palm, the other sliding back down the face of the rock to push between their bodies. He hadn’t truly breached her, but all it would take was a shift of their weight and he could slide home as easy as breathing. He could feel her body tightening against him and watched her eyes as he flexed his hips, dragging oh-Maker-painfully good against her slick cunt. “As if I’m not going crazy with it. But—fuck, Inara—are you sure? You can have anything you want of me, with or without…”

Blackwall trailed off and licked his lips, keeping her gaze. It was so important she understand the strength of the hold she had on him. “M’lady, I want nothing but you. Always. It’s always there, under my bloody skin. You’re some kind of madness in me.”

Her lashes flickered as those beautiful eyes fluttered closed. Her lips parted on a breath. “And you in me,” Inara murmured—shaking him to his core with those four words. But she wasn’t done unmaking him. Inara dragged in a breath—breasts heaving against him, distracting in their beauty—and opened her eyes again to meet his. Her expression was so very serious, pupils blown wide but still focused on the weight of this moment. On what this _meant_ for them. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Warden Blackwall,” Inara said, reaching to frame his face. “If you feel even a quarter for me what I do for you…you must know that I am yours.”

The name— _his_ name—was a wound and a balm all at once, and Blackwall surged up to seal her promise with a kiss. The way she melted against him, twining her arms around his neck and kissing _back_ was enough to heal a thousand hurts, and oh, _oh_ but she felt so right in his arms, even as every warning bell in his head was clamoring that taking her here, like this, was all kinds of wrong.

 _Well_ , Blackwall thought, tongue stroking deep into her mouth, hand dropped between them—rough knuckles rubbing intimately against the delicate curve of her sex, dragging through soft hair to brush against her clit over and over— _we’ll be wrong together, then._

He shifted his grip, running the meat of his thumb across the point where their hips met before bending his knees just enough to catch her weight against the boulder…and slowly slowly _slowly_ drove into the slick give of her body. He could, fuck, feel himself pushing into her, could run his fingers along the point where his cock drove steadily into the welcoming grip of her cunt and and and—

Inara gasped into the kiss, jerking against him. She scrabbled for his shoulders, nails biting into hard muscle as he slowly, carefully, deliberately seated himself inside her. It was—fuck, just, _perfect_ , the clench of her body almost enough to drive him mad. He wanted to pull out and thrust back again hard, wanted to rut, but Blackwall held on with an iron control he didn’t even realize he had, kiss lingering as he took her by careful degrees.

Finally— _finally_ —their hips were pressed together, their bodies seamed from shoulders to thigh. He drew his hand away and braced it against the rock, needing it to take his weight; his knees actually shook and he swore that without it, he would be tumbling back into the cool water.

“M’lady,” he gasped against her mouth. She was panting quietly in return, holding on to him with everything she had. The tighttighttight clench of her cunt was going to drive him mad, but Maker, what a way to go. “M’lady, I… _fuck_.”

That stole a shaky laugh from her, and Inara broke the kiss to look down at him, something bright and bloody perfect shining in her eyes. “Truer words,” she teased, her voice a delicious husk. When she pressed their foreheads together, he was surrounded by the moonlight-pale swing of her hair; her breaths bathed his cheeks in heat. “But _are_ you, Blackwall? _Are_ you going to…to… _fuck_ me?”

The coarse words in her cultured lady’s voice sent a shiver down his spine. Oh, the filth he wanted to teach her. “Do you want me to, then?” he teased, grinding his hips against her. The movement drove him deep into her body—set her to fluttering madly about his cock, bloody _void_ —and nearly had his eyes crossing in response. He was holding still by will alone. Maker, but he wanted to ruin her.

“I-I’d think the answer to that was obvious,” she said. Inara’s words broke in the middle on a cry, and he loved the way she clawed at his shoulders even as she tightened about him. “Blackwall, please, I want you to—”

“Order me,” he said on a growl. He pushed her up, letting her arch supine against the boulder as he lowered his head to catch one of those impossibly tight nipples between his lips, his teeth. She cried out again, _writhing_ up, heels drumming against the small of his back and body—body _moving_ , trying to rock, to rut, to take him deeper and deeper.

He growled again, sucking hard at the peak of her breast, keeping his hips still as she lost herself against him. One hand stayed braced against rock while the other dropped again between them, calloused fingertips finding the point where their bodies met and teasing the incessant throb of her clit.

 _“Blackwall!_ ” she cried, far too loud. Not even the crash of the nearby falls could camouflage that sound, but he didn’t care; he wouldn’t care if the entire fucking Orlesian court were there, watching them rut like wild dogs out under the open night sky. He’d been wanting this too long, needing her too badly—now that they were here, he would see this through and _damn_ the voices whispering in the back of his mind that he didn’t come close to deserving her. “Blackwall, _oh_ , please!”

“Order me,” Blackwall snarled, moving to her other breast, frantic, hungry. He sucked dark marks against her pristine skin and let his hips snap forward once— _driving_ her back against stone. The water sloshed about their hips, keeping her buoyant enough that he could drag his free hand down down down the perfect tapestry of her body, rough against silk; the dark hair of his sword-scarred body against the lush softness of hers was a maddening contrast, and all at once he wanted her to grab his hair and force him down between her thighs; Maker, but he would worship at her altar gladly. “Order me, my lady; make me pleasure you, make me—”

She grabbed at his tangled salt-and-pepper hair as if she could sense even a quarter of his filthy thoughts and yanked his head back so he was looking up at her. Inara’s heaving breasts were wet from his tongue, nipples slick and sore, and the flush of pink that rose from her chest up her neck to her bright cheeks was as beautiful as a watercolor, even in the dark desert night.

“Warden Blackwall,” she said, voice gone low and dangerous the way it sometimes did in the middle of battle, “I _order_ you to stop this tease and, and, and _fuck me_.”

Inara said the coarse words on a fierce grimace, and it was all he could do not to pledge his undying love right then and there. Instead, Blackwall surged up, catching her mouth in a brutal kiss even as he slid from her body and _slammed_ back—driving her against stone.

She cried out, yanking his hair so hard it was a bright, perfect pain.

 _I love you, I love you_ , he thought, kissing her as he thrust deep into her welcoming body over and over. There was no gentleness in the coupling, no fancy silks or Orlesian canopies, no poetry and music. There was just the stars scattered bright and curious over their heads, and the stars echoing back from the water swirling about their rocking hips. There was the desert breeze and the crash of the waterfall and every breath that gusted from her mouth into his—gasping with the swipe of their tongues, echoing the grind of his body, the way he drove her higher and higher and higher.

Blackwall held onto her with one hand and circled her clit with the fingers of his other, _feeling_ the point where his (Maker, fuck, so incredibly _hard_ ) cock thrust into her, teasing her into crying out sharply. The noise she made was unexpected and _perfect_ , filling the air every time she broke his kiss to gasp in a breath. When he shifted his weight and truly _drove_ up into her, slamming her hard, Inara almost _screamed_ —only the hungry swipe of his tongue gentled the noise at the last moment, his heavy body pinning hers, rutting, dragging hard against soft and needing, needing, fuck fuck _needing_ —

“I’m,” she gasped, sliding down his body as her legs gave out, uncoordinated and perfect in her driving lust. “I’m going, oh, _Blackwall_ , I—”

“ _Order me_ ,” he grit against her mouth, biting at her lip—then biting down her neck, fingers twisting through the slick heat of her cunt, right at the crest where his cock drove into her again and again. “M’lady, order me, please.”

He loved the sharp rake of her nails—knew it’d leave eight new pink marks across his shoulders—as she arched back against him with a broken cry and said, “Yes, _fuck_ , Blackwall, I want, I, make me _come_.”

 _Maker_ , those words in her mouth—the sacred and the profane mingling together in a way that drove him absolutely crazy. He bit at the pale column of her throat, sucking his mark into her skin as he gripped one hip and _drove_ up into her, each wild thrust catching his hand between them as he circled her clit faster and faster and—

She _screamed_ again, wild and a little defiant, cry echoing out across the oasis as she came—brutally hard, body clamping down around him and shuddering. Blackwall made a broken noise in response, kissing her jaw, up to her ear, biting at the lobe as he fucked her through the wild spasms of her body; he came moments later with her voice soft on his lips, devotion whispered in her ear as together they were consumed.

It seemed to be forever before his muscles loosened and he collapsed forward—slapping one hand against the stone to keep from crushing her. Inara relaxed back with a breathy sigh, smile slow and warm and enough to get his heart pounding again. _Maker_ , but she was beautiful—sweat dotting her hairline, eyes a sleepy half-lidded, fingers tangling in his beard so she could pull him close for a kiss.

He went willingly; of course he did. He was _hers_ in every way.

“Are you through running away from me, then?” Inara murmured as she slowly unwound her legs. Blackwall caught her about the waist, carefully holding her weight as he pulled free, then set her down on unsteady feet. She seemed content to lean against him, body warm in the cooling swirls of water, languid and trusting enough that it made him ache. There was so much she didn’t know about him. There was so much he was too afraid to confess—especially now that he knew just how much he had to lose.

 _I am sorry,_ he thought, stroking back her shining hair and wishing—not for the first time—that he truly was Warden Blackwall. That cowardly Thom Rainier had died a traitor’s death ages ago. That he had skewered him on his own sword and had long since forgotten the name. Maybe, if he fought hard enough, he could subsume himself in this identity. Maybe if someone like Inara believed it to be true, the lie would be swallowed and he’d be the brave Warden after all.

“Blackwall?” she asked, looking up.

He sighed. _I will never be bloody good enough for you, but Maker, how I will try._ “I’m here, m’lady,” he murmured.

That wasn’t good enough. She pressed a hand over his chest, looking up at him gravely. So fierce, so kind, so powerful it made his head spin. This woman could have anyone or anything she wanted; how, _how_ was it that she had chosen him? “Do I need to make it an order?” she asked, going for tough, though he could hear the cracks of uncertainty in her voice. The tiny slivers of self-doubt.

The water was deep, but not so deep that he couldn’t step back and drop to one knee. He felt silly doing it—naked as his name-day and covered with her marks—but the moment he was on his knee in front of her, it felt _right_ , too. As if he had been created to serve this woman. To swear himself to her, this Herald of Andraste. “Yes. Order me,” Blackwall said in a quietly grave voice, watching her face from beneath his lashes. Hoping she understood the symbolism shivering under this act.

She touched her hand to his hair; there were tears in her lashes. She may not have understood completely, but she read enough on his face. “Stay by my side,” Inara said, thumb stroking across his temple. “And love me.”

And truly, in the face of a command like _that_ , what could he do but rise and pull her into his arms—tangle his fingers in soft hair as he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her—and whisper with each twining stroke of his tongue:

“As m’lady wishes.”


End file.
